In the Arms of an Angel
by Shakespeare's Muse
Summary: The last time I remember feeling anything other than old and unwise was my sixteenth birthday – you know, the day we snuck a load of Ogden’s Old Firewhisky out of school and sat in the snow by the Shrieking Shack, getting totally off our heads.


_In the arms of the angel  
_Fly away from here  
_From this dark cold hotel room  
_And the endlessness that you fear  
_You are pulled from the wreckage  
_Of your silent reverie  
_You're in the arms of the angel  
_May you find some comfort there  
_You're in the arms of the angel  
_May you find some comfort here

_'Angel', by Sarah McLachlan_

* * *

**They were children once…a fairytale's time ago…**

She sits on the ancient swing seat on the veranda, and looks out at the garden shrouded in shadows and cobwebs. It's dark now, and she sees by the light that seeps out from the house behind her, from the fire in the living room grate; where the dogs sleep on the hearthrug beside it and her husband's armchair sits in the glow of the slowly dying embers.

He's asleep, she knows; she left the bed at half past one and now its three thirty five, and she hasn't heard a thing from him. The children either.

And then, in the disappearing light, she sees a shape in the darkened garden, striding slowly and purposefully up the gravel path. She's not surprised to see the man it dissolves into.

But then again, she never is.

"It's a little late to drop by, isn't it?" she remarks mordantly, watching him with gold-flecked eyes as he steps into the circle of light thrown around the house.

He smiles; a mirthless, empty thing.

"I couldn't sleep"

"And so you decide to come here in the middle of the night and wake me for a cosy chat?"

"You'd know I'd never do that Parkinson; I knew you were awake"

She flinches at the name he calls her, eyes flicking towards the house.

"Blaise will go mad if he finds you here at half past three in the morning," she warns, "and don't call me Parkinson; it's Zabini now"

"I don't care" comes the callous response.

"I do"

He sits on the swing seat next to her, respecting her worried glance towards the house and sitting at the opposite end, away from her.

"You'll always be Parkinson to me" he says, "Zabini's reserved for you _darling_ husband"

"Don't speak of him so vehemently; he's never done anything to you"

"Apart from stealing away someone I cared for a lot, once upon a time"

She looks at him with a scornful expression, eyebrows raised. Her mouth is set in a disbelieving rosebud of a distant smile.

"Who would that be? I seem to recall the only thing Blaise ever stole from you was me"

He doesn't say anything; just looks at her with solid silver eyes and laughs callously.

"Don't be so noisy," she says after a moment, although the reprimand comes too late to sound like one – it only serves to make her seem absent-minded, "If Blaise wakes up…"

"Blaise sleeps like the dead" he replies.

"Not always"

"So if a ten tonne truck comes crashing through the wall he'll wake up; who wouldn't?"

"This isn't a joke Malfoy"

"Do you see me laughing?"

She doesn't answer, just looks down at the floor of the veranda, her eyes staring through the wooden floorboards into nothing.

"It's cold out here you know" he says several minutes later, when the silence becomes too unbearable, "And you're only in a nightdress"

"I don't feel the cold," she answers, and it's true too. She knows that. And so does he.

"No, you never did. Do you remember—"

"Always"

"We were so young then – children really"

She raises dark eyebrows. "We were fourteen"

"Exactly – we were young"

"And we still are – or is the grand old age of twenty-five too ancient for you?"

"It's not age I'm talking about Parkinson—"

She flinches again.

"—it's mentality. How old do you _feel_? Do you _feel_ twenty-five?"

She shakes her head. "No," she answers truthfully, "but then again, did we _ever_ feel young? The last time I remember feeling anything other than old and unwise was my sixteenth birthday – you know, the day we snuck a load of Ogden's Old Firewhisky out of school and sat in the snow by the Shrieking Shack, getting totally off our heads"

"I remember perfectly"

"Back then I actually felt like I could have fun. After that I don't think things were ever quite the same again"

There is a pause; then—

"That was the summer you found out you were engaged to Blaise"

She laughs bitterly at the memory, gold-flecked eyes reflecting the cynicism in the sound. She looks at her left hand, at the fancy engagement ring and the simpler band of wedding gold that follows it. The large diamond on the engagement ring winks and sparkles in the light – it is mocking her, reminding her of the inescapable ties that bind her to the man asleep upstairs.

His eyes follow them too, the silver irises focusing on the jewellery with a certain amount of extreme dislike – hatred even. He knows of the bonds as well as she does.

They haunt her, as intangible as a ghost, and yet so real and oppressive she can hardly escape them.

"I never wanted to marry him you know" she says after a moment, eyes fixed on the floor. She wants him to know this; she just doesn't like telling him.

"Really?"

She glares at him. "Of course. My heart always belonged to you"

He raises his eyebrows, making her angry; angrier in fact – she's already riled.

"What! It's true!"

"Are you sure Parkinson?"

"For the millionth time!" she explodes, remembering just in time to keep her voice down. She shoots a quick glance at the house, but all seems well. Out of the entire family, only she is a light sleeper. "For the millionth time, don't call me Parkinson. And yes," she adds, "It is true – very true"

"But it wasn't me that broke it, was it?"

She shakes her head. "No. It was me"

Now it's his turn to shake his head, laughing acrimoniously. "I don't think anyone could ever break their _own_ heart, Parkinson. I'm pretty sure it was Blaise that did it"

"Blaise is a good husband!" she defends, arms crossed and her expression angry, "He's never done anything _but_ be a good husband throughout our entire marriage. He's a wonderful father and he treats me beautifully—"

"—But he doesn't love you"

The sudden interruption shocks her into silence, and she stares at him in surprise, her eyes wide and her mouth slightly open.

"Wh—wh—"

"Don't deny it Parkinson – however well he might treat you, however good a _friend_ he might be, _he has never loved you!_"

She is left staring at him, her expression surprised and her mind unable to find an answer, a clever retort that she is usually so ready with.

"Who needs love?" she finally manages to croak, her eyes filled with tears. One tips over the edge, tracing a shining line of salty water down her cheek.

His eyes soften as he sees the tears, and his expression changes, a small smile playing at the corners of his lips as he leans forward and wipes the tear away with his thumb. She smiles up at him through the tears, glad that he is closer.

"Not you, obviously," he whispers, his fingers tracing her cheekbone. She closes her eyes and leans into his hand, sighing as more silent tears make their way down her face, only to drip off the end of her nose and stain her nightdress.

"I'm lonely you know," she says, her voice cracking slightly, "Blaise goes off to work all day and the children stay upstairs with the nanny mostly. I feel like I'm all alone in that big house all day, every day"

"You shouldn't have to be lonely" he tells her. His hand leaves her cheek and trails down her neck, across her shoulder and down her arm to her hand. He pauses for a moment, and the long, spidery fingers trace her knuckles before grasping her hand tightly. "I don't want you to be lonely".

"Oh Draco…" she murmurs, using his christian name for the first time in their exchange, "I wish things were different between us…I wish…" She trails off and takes a deep breath, "I wish I'd never married Blaise…"

"Sometimes…I think maybe I do too Pansy". He uses her first name too.

She pauses; he's never said anything like this before. Before…he has always been distant when she said anything along these lines, reacting as though she might have hurt him or offended him deeply; but now the cool, detached expression she usually sees in his grey eyes is gone. In the past, she would always wonder, briefly, if he was even really there at all; he'd always seemed to be half a world away, somewhere else. She'd always wanted to know where he'd gone. Now it seems that perhaps he is finally waking up. She is trembling with emotions she can't name, and she can feel her heart hammering a steady rhythm against her ribs. Everything is silent, waiting.

He moves his hand away from hers, and the moment is broken. She can see the pieces hit the floor and shatter like glass.

"Sometimes…"

She struggles to say something, but the air seems to get caught in her throat and all she can manage is a pathetic, strangled noise like someone drowning.

He moves away again back to the other end of the swing seat, folding his hands in his lap and looking down to the floor with a sigh. She watches him silently from beneath her hair, biting her lip so hard to keep herself from crying that she can taste the coppery tang of blood in her mouth. She feels utterly desolate now; the one door that she wanted to be opened slammed shut and locked in her face.

Without a sound she stands, her body trembling as she grasps onto the swing seat's wooden armrest with shaking fingers. She is still for a moment, giving him one last chance to say something. The silence that follows almost breaks her, but she bites back the tears one last time as she turns and walks towards the front door. She barely hesitates this time as she turns the handle, slipping inside and back into her own life before shutting the door behind her.

He is left outside with only the silent night and a thousand memories for company. She won't be back.

**They were children once…a fairytale's time ago…**


End file.
